The Neighbourhood
I’m back east for a bit, having returned out of some warped sense of duty to resume care of Contrary Mary on her return from a winter in Florida. More about that later.
While I’m decidedly unhappy about my current state of affairs, some aspects of being back in my home city never fail to charm me. The fact that I can visit my Jewish chiropractor who practices in a multi-cultural medical building located in one of Toronto’s two predominantly Chinese neighbourhoods strikes me as pretty unique. (For some reason, I’m hesitating to use the term “Chinatown” here, although that is what we commonly call both areas. Maybe I’m being overly p.c. or just plain sensitive, but it sounds vaguely like calling someone a “Chinaman”.) Across the chaotic parking lot from the medical centre, there is a bustling little Chinese grocery store. The place is full to the rafters with excellent, reasonably-priced produce, canned and bottled goods with mysterious Chinese labels, and the freshest fish counter I’ve ever put my nose to. The staff talk loudly among themselves and the cashiers scowl at anyone who’s not Chinese: Something that used to make my blood boil, but now just makes me laugh. I came away from my most recent visit with a little bit more than bags of reasonably-priced, fresh food: First, I felt the self-satisfaction of having made my grouchy cashier giggle, and second, I discovered my itemized, bilingual receipt. I love the English spelling errors…
